


the gossamer thread you fling

by fansofcollisions



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cullen Has Issues, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Touching, Orlesian Balls, Orlesian Grand Game, Pre-Relationship, Rape/Non-con Elements, Skin Hunger, The Winter Palace, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Touch-Starved, Trust Issues, Wet Dream, conversations about consent and kinks and touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:58:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: Cullen attracts more than a few admirers at the Winter Palace. One take things a step too far, and Cullen is left dangling over the precipice, wondering if the desperate feeling crawling beneath his skin is a sign of weakness, or if he's just been wrong in the head for longer than he imagined.(Note: the non-con warning is for non-consensual touching - no explicit rape occurs. However, the topic is focal to the story, so proceed with due caution.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cullen is one of those characters that grew on me slowly, then all at once. The need to write fic about him nearly outpaced my desire to actually finish the damn game, but I held myself back and managed to complete a run-through before letting myself at this story.
> 
> The writing is actually complete, but I'm not quite sure how I'm going to split up the chapters yet. Let's leave 3 as a rough estimate :)

Cullen’s nose itches.

More to the point, his nose itches, and has for the better part of the last hour, and he’s not sure he’s allowed to do anything about it.

Though he doesn’t drink as a general rule, at least while on duty, he’d be sorely tempted to forfeit his abstinence if it meant having something to roll between his hands. In the absence of a sword hilt to rest them upon, it’s a small ordeal to keep his fingers still by his thighs. They ache to be put to us.

A use like, for instance, scratching that damned itch. He can’t stand it another second.

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll pay my respects to the Countess Alaine.” His words clip the end of a long-winded speech by the woman to his right and she frowns, eyes warning him of the faux pas he’s committed, but he’s gone before she has a chance to reprimand him. Another of the women, hair twirled in girlish curls, calls out her disappointment and begs to see him again for a dance later. He blushes and pretends not to hear.

He has no idea if there’s a real Countess Alaine at this party, but if Cullen has learned anything in the last three hours of tedium and uneasy social dealings it’s that the Winter Palace’s guest list is too vast to for any sane person to learn every name, and that to admit ignorance of some important noble is a graver offence than to talk out of turn. He’s been caught in that trap twice tonight already, and he’s more than ready to start turning it to his advantage.

He searches the outskirts of the ballroom and finally finds an opening that leads to a corridor, but by the time he faces a mostly empty wall where he might finally be discreet, the itch has all but disappeared. Of course it has. What else should he expect on this infernal night?

Cullen glances around, cognizant that he’s found himself in an unfamiliar space. The path forward is spotted with only a few guests: garish red and purple stains against the gold-gilded walls. Tall shuttered panes close off balconies to his right which, he presumes, look out over the garden far below. He has no idea what he’ll find if he continues on, but if there’s one thing he cannot do, it’s return to the ballroom yet. He’ll look the fool (moreso than he’s already done) if any of the women he’d been chatting with happen to see him return without the mysterious, non-existent Countess on his arm. He has no choice but to continue on.

As he passes face after unfamiliar face, he chides himself for hoping to stumble upon the Inquisitor among them. She has more important things to do at this party than him; machinations to uncover and kingdoms to save. His only job is to remain vigilant and try not to offend anyone so greatly that the lot of them get thrown out.

Easier said than done.

Josephine had graciously offered to help him brush up on his insufficient manners after seeing his (apparently blatant) anxiety over the whole affair, and he’d foolishly turned her down; he’s kicking himself now for it. At least the Inquisitor would be an empathetic face – he doesn’t get the impression she’s any more comfortable Orlesian high society than he. Still, she managed to simper with the best of them for the greater part of an hour before making her escape into the twisting folds of the palace, leaving her advisors and companions to hold the fort as best they can.

He walks past the last balcony and finds himself in an anteroom, likely adjoined to a smaller ballroom, or perhaps a parlor. The atmosphere here is more intimate, with dappled tapestries depicting epic tales in fine silk thread lending an air of personability to the uniform walls. Cozy armchairs dot the sides at uneven intervals and a few people gather in little clusters against the backdrops, their murmuring less taxing on his ears than the din of the larger rooms. Here, at least, he might catch a moment’s peace.

Cullen knows that he should return to his post in the ballroom soon – he needs to stand ready in the event that the Inquisitor requests his men – but he allows himself this small respite. If the need is truly urgent, she’ll find him quick enough. She seems to have a sixth sense for that sort of thing, so much so that at times, he’s found himself wondering if she’d cast a tracking spell on him. She always seems to catch him at the times he’d most like to remain hidden.

Bookshelves climb from floor to vaulted ceilings along a single wall, which is fascinating in its own way. Apparently, the designers decided to pack all of their arts and history into one small room. He wanders over for the pretense of something to do – surely no one could read anything rude into the perusal of books? Then again, by the increasingly sour expressions of the lords and ladies he’s had the displeasure to entertain tonight, he’d hardly be surprised to find that this small activity, in his hands, has somehow become tainted.

He’d still prefer that to the flattering of those less experienced members of court, who seem to have collectively lost their heads. Having cornered him a moment earlier in the evening, Leliana teased that they find his awkwardness charming, but for what reason he cannot fathom. The girls in their golden lion’s masks brush against his arm in fits of calculated clumsiness, their whispers conspiratorial with mouths too close and eyes too bright, faces too unbearably young. It sets his teeth on edge.

He’d never tolerated such foolishness as a Templar. That uniform at least, with its emblem of order, was a welcome deterrent to any such advance. Tonight’s tailored outfit fits too thinly to a body accustomed to layers of bulky armor, and carries none of the implicit authority of military garb. Here, he is just a man, one who pretty girls might dare to fawn at.

Though he knows it might win him favour, the thought of accepting a dance with even one of them, even for the sake of his appearance, is… unpalatable.

“Ser Rutherford, was it?”

“Commander,” he corrects. It’s force of habit, the brusqueness, and he immediately cringes to himself. That wasn’t some subtle, ridiculous social cue he’s neglected – this was genuine rudeness on his part. He turns to apologize to whoever he’s undoubtedly just offended.

He’s greeted, to his surprise, by a man with a mouth twitching at the edges in obvious mirth. The apologies die on his lips. “Of course, my mistake. Commander.”

Even with a snake-eyed mask obscuring the upper half of his face, Cullen is sure he’s seen this man before. Though the night’s faces are rapidly distorting into an array of mismatched pieces, he remembers the pin on the man’s lapel: intricate swirls of lazurite melded into an onyx inset, shaping the outline of some crest that he doesn’t recognize. It’s a remarkable piece of craftsmanship, even to his untrained eye. Apparently, more remarkable than this man’s face, which is only passingly familiar. They’d spoken a few brief words before Cullen had been whisked away by another too-insistent admirer.

Twinkling eyes peep out through the spaces in the mask, and the man drops his voice, not low enough to prevent any eager eavesdropper from catching the words, but enough to make Cullen take notice of the shift. “I thought I’d recognized you. It’s a fine thing, to be able to speak with one of the leaders of the Inquisition face to face.” The way he stresses the word _Inquisition_ only solidifies his suspicion – this is no chance second encounter. Still, it’s too soon to guess whether the stranger means well or ill.

The man raises his voice again to a more natural volume. “I confess, I find myself short on good company this evening – my consort has taken leave for the evening. Would you take a turn with me about the veranda? I’m sure you’ve many a tale to tell of your exploits in Ferelden.”

Were this any place but Orlais, that phrasing would have made him suspicious of a more subtle sort of invitation, the type one didn’t advertise too loudly in the barracks. But here, all he knows of social interaction seems turned topsy-turvy, and he can’t be certain the implication is the same. Besides, he’s not so dense to ignore the unspoken promise in the man’s words. He’s offering an exchange of information. For all Cullen knows, he might even be one of Leliana’s birds, come to roost in his ear with a new secret or two.

Or, he might be an assassin hoping to take advantage of Cullen’s disarmed state. There aren’t many evident places to hide a weapon in the red velveteen jacket and brocade sash – yet another reason to hate the ensemble. It’s a good thing then that Cullen has a special talent for such things. The dagger tucked into the hem of the jacket presses cold into his side with every motion. It lends him security. He’s quite certain that if it came to it, he’d be more than capable of defending himself.

“I would be happy to, though I’m sure they cannot compare to the tales of Orlais.” The words are like sawdust in his mouth, stiff and ill-flowing. This is Leliana’s purview: the hidden conversation, words within words, a thread of meaning stitching the implicit beneath banality. He’s accustomed to speaking plainly – it was what his commanders expected of him in the order, and anything else feels stilted on his tongue. “Will you tell me a tale of your own?”

The man grins, baring a wolfish bright smile. “But of course.”  He’s not misjudged then. The thread of the unspoken agreement is bound. Would Leliana be proud of his schoolboy attempt at the Game? He thinks he’ll be happy not to play it again after this night.

“Shall we?” he says, then looks around. The door out the other side of the room appears to lead to some dark hallway – perfect for exchanging secrets, perhaps, but not for discretion. Two men whispering in the shadows make for a tempting eavesdropping target.

To his surprise, the man takes Cullen’s elbow in a firm grip. He glances down at the hand now attached to his arm, nonplussed, but allows himself to be guided back towards the door where he entered. The other man is a breath shorter than him, but not so much that the difference makes the movement uncomfortable. Cullen is still not sure what to do with his hands. He’s seen lovers and confidantes walk in this fashion but never needed to comprehend the mechanics behind it. Generally when he’s grabbed another by the elbow, it’s been a short interlude to violence, or a steadying in the heat of battle. He keeps his steps as even as he can, matching his companion’s pace. It would not do to stumble and fall face-first into the polished marble. He can’t help but think there will be enough blood to sully its shine before the night is over.

“Laugh as though what I’ve said is amusing.” The whisper is only for his ears, spoken so low and soft and near that it’s barely more than a breath of hot air against his ear. He flushes, fighting the instinct to move away from the unexpected closeness. The couple near the door are watching their procession with curious eyes. He musters a half-hearted chuckle, too aware of the shallow breaths now ghosting over his neck. The performance is unconvincing, but after a moment the couple return to their conversation.

“Good,” murmurs the man, and he withdraws. Cullen finds himself very conscious of the prickle of sweat at the nape of his neck. He wipes his free hand on his trousers as it begins to clam. He’d like to blame it on the heat of a crowded party and a starched uniform finally catching up with him, but he was fine only a moment ago.

There’s only one explanation that comes to mind: the lyrium. It must be. He supposes he’s just never been this close to another person since he stopped taking it, but hypersensitivity to touch seems plausible based on his other symptoms. And if it’s another symptom, he’s glad this one at least will be easy enough to deal with. It’s not as walking arm-in-arm with another is part of his daily schedule.

As they walk the corridor, he takes a moment to assess his companion. A cursory glance exposes no obvious weaponry. This is not a surprise. He’d be shocked to see anyone openly brandishing a weapon here. Nightshade-laced handkerchiefs or enchanted rings seem more fitting, but he can find none of those either. In fact, compared to the rest of the finery surrounding them, the man’s dress is rather simple: a plain black uniform, fitted with silver clasps and violet trim. His hair peeks out from under the mask, brown locks sheared close to the shoulders and tied back with a cord of plain silk. He’s built well, muscle definition obvious but not obscene, though more than one would expect from a common noble. Trained, then, but not likely to be a mercenary.

All in all, there is nothing particularly remarkable in his appearance, save the broach on his jacket. If anything is likely to be an instrument of poison or sorcery, that would be it. He files that information away and refocuses on their path.

The people in the corridor have thinned since he last walked it, leaving only a few guests. All seem quite keen to ignore them, and he does his best to do the same. The din of the ballroom echoes from the end of the passageway, bright melodic strains and too many voices, but the man turns them away from the noise and towards one of the balconies.

The shuttered door swings open easily enough. Its function is seemingly more decorative than utilitarian, as Cullen can see no lock or even latch. Any would-be thief would have been apprehended long before reaching this point.

The man releases his elbow as soon as they’re through, and Cullen tries not to breath a sigh of relief. Though the touch was light, he can still feel the imprint of the man’s fingers beneath his jacket. 

Theirs is one of many balconies spread across the side of the hallway, but all the rest are empty. Their railings are high enough to prevent a tipsy party-goer from taking an accidental tumble, but a step or two forward carries Cullen far enough to peer down over the edge.

The balcony overlooks the garden, as he expected. Or, _a_ garden, more likely – he doubts very much the estate hosts only one. The courtyard is teeming with guests, their chatter rising like birdsong on the evening breeze.

Instinctively his eyes begin to rove for familiar faces, and it takes him but a moment to spot Dorian, clearly in his element, conversing with a veritable horde of curious Orlesians. No doubt they’re smitten by the rarity of his Tevinter ancestry, and he’s got the charm to live up to that air of mystery. Cole is nowhere to be found, though he knows the spirit meant to join them tonight. No doubt he’s off terrifying some poor elf servant girl with promises of happiness soon forgotten in the haze of his enchantment. That’s an unstable element he’d rather not have along in this delicate situation, but the Inquisitor had insisted, and he’s long since given up trying to dissuade her choice in companions. The Iron Bull, of course, he would have spotted instantly were he present. That leaves only the Inquisitor, but she, like Cole, has become a ghost to his eyes.

A warm hand on his wrist brings him back to reality. He turns to find the man still smiling the same wolfish grin.

“There was something you wished to tell me?” he says, not returning the easy expression. He sees no purpose in maintaining the ruse now that they’re alone, and though he keeps his voice soft in case of eavesdroppers by the door, he does not bother couching his words in false sentiment.

“Will you not enjoy the view with me a moment? It’s quite beautiful.” Evidentially, his companion does not feel the same, and he twists one foot impatiently as the man leans on the railing, taking in the vista. It _is_ quite beautiful, as the man says, but Cullen must return soon to the party. He cannot dally here and ignore his responsibilities to watch the stars shift overhead.

“If we have nothing to discuss then forgive me, but I will take my leave.”

He turns towards the door. It’s no feint – he fully intends to go if the man insists on wasting time. Any information he receives here is a boon, but not critical to their mission. He will not shirk his duty for a vague implication.

“A moment.” Cullen suddenly finds himself blocked from exit by the man, who moves more nimbly than the cut of his uniform would suggest. His smile is never-wavering, and his hands are relaxed, even as he gently tests the door to ensure it’s fully closed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Of course, to business.”

Cullen sighs. Better. He’s back on solid ground. Time to test his mettle in a more common ring.

The man takes a step forward, hand leaving the door. It rests closed, slats permitting only a few shreds of firelight from the inner corridor. Cullen stands firm, refusing to step back. This feels like a test, and a familiar one. If this is to be a negotiation, it won’t do to show any sign of weakness at the start, even something as simple as conceding space.

“There’s something I possess that may be of interest to your Inquisition. A small detail, perhaps, but I believe that in the right hands it could prove quite valuable.”

He does not ask what it is. Even outside the realm of the Game that question would be pointless: no one with sense would surrender information so lightly. “And you would give this from the goodness of your heart?”

“Of course.” The man takes another step forward. Cullen locks his knees, lifting his head high. If he focuses on a point over the man’s shoulder, he can ignore the proximity.

From this vantage, the garden below is obscured by the edge of the railing, but off near the far wall there rises a white lattice adorned with crawling ivy. A black speck moving upwards catches his attention, but the man shifts in front of him before he can fully focus.

 “I believe your cause is just, and I would be happy to help it along in whatever way I can.”

“Really?” Cullen narrows his eyes. They’ve had their share of benefactors in the past, but this man does not strike him as the sort to give without something in return. The eyes behind the mask are too shrewd, despite the flash of teeth and relaxed posture.

“I ask only a favour. A small thing.”

“I see.” He crosses his arms. _Small_ is always relative.

“Yes, very small. A kiss.”

Cullen freezes, disbelieving his own ears. “Excuse me?” His breath comes out in a awkward laugh, so unexpected is the request. He must have misheard.

The man’s smile does not falter. “I’ve watched you spend the night hounded by beautiful women, begging for a moment of your time. You cannot be ignorant of your appeal.” He takes another step forward. Cullen takes one back. “I could not help but notice, you did not accept a single offer. Now, why might that be?”

He’s speechless. The man is truly serious. “No,” he croaks out. “No, I don’t think so.” A moment later, he realizes that perhaps he should have considered the offer more carefully. A kiss, as he says, is a small thing. Worth even a meagre piece of information. But the thought rankles his pride more than he can admit, even to himself, and what’s worse, the lyrium…

“There’s no need to be bashful, _Commander_ ,” and the title is spoken with no shred of respect, like he’s a child playing the hero. “I know in Ferelden men are prudish about such things, but here in Orlais-”

“Be serious,” he snaps, “or this negotiation is over.”

“Oh, I am serious.” The smile sharpens and the air turns cold. “Do you not know who I am, Ser Rutherford?” He takes another step, and Cullen concedes again. The small of his back hits the corner between the wall and railing. _Damn._

“Can’t say that I do,” he says. One more step and their knees will be brushing, close enough for the slip of a dagger between plate mail – that danger is written in his bones, even absent his armour. His hand moves to his hip where his own dagger lies.

“I’m a man well-regarded in this province. Most would be glad of my company this evening.”

“Is that so?”

 “I will not be denied,” says the man. He moves to take the final step, but Cullen lifts a hand, placing it firmly in the centre of the man’s chest, with just enough weight to show his strength.

“Is that meant to be a threat?” he asks, incredulous. Then he envisions someone smaller than him cornered like this, one trembling hand holding a stranger at bay, and bile rises in the back of his throat. The man transforms before his eye – pallor and clothes and simple garb now oily and off-putting, christened by a spine-chilling leer. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that expression directed his way, though he recalls knocking it out of a fellow Templar, who spent a moment too long considering a mage between the bookshelves of the Kinloch library. “If it’s a fight you’re asking for, I think you’ll find I’m more than your match.”

The man lifts his hand and brushes his knuckles against the edge of Cullen’s wrist. He jerks his hand back, feeling the flush rise higher on his chest. The man takes the opportunity to try and regain grown but Cullen shoves him away. His shoulder hits the slats, and they rattle ominously. Both men still.

“You could fight, true, and I might lose. But I know of the little scheme your Inquisitor has planned tonight. She must curry favour amongst the nobility or risk being thrown out. What do you think will happen, should her captain of the guard start a fist-fight with a well-respected member of the court? These walls are not so thick that nobody will hear if I call for aid, nor this balcony so high that those below won’t notice our scuffle.” He begins to advance again with slow, deliberate steps. Cullen eyes the door, but he’s too far to the edge to dart past the man to freedom. “There is no greater offense in the Game than to render violence openly,” and Cullen knows the truth of the statement. Leliana has told him as much. You must strike from the shadows or not at all.

“What I ask is so simple. Would you risk the fate of your mission for the sake of, what, modesty?”

He hears Dorian’s laugh, unmistakable, drifting from the party below. The black speck is gone from the lattice. The man’s hand is on his arm again, fingers pressing through the fabric, a paltry excuse for armor.

The mission. After so many close calls already tonight, with so much at stake, he cannot be the reason that they fail.

A deep breath, and he lets his hands fall to his sides.

The coolness of the mask pressed against his forehead is unexpected, soothing. Almost enough to distract him from the push of lips against his own.

This is not his first kiss, but he’d forgotten the alienness of the sensation. The man’s lips are smooth and unchapped, very different than the farmgirl who’d taken his first all those years ago; that was a week before he joined the order. It’s odd, but not unbearable, and for a moment, he feels ludicrous for his own worry. It really is a small thing.

Then the man’s hands move to his neck, fingers delving beneath his collar and creeping to the edge of his jaw, tilting his head, and it takes all his strength not to lash out. His mouth opens instinctively to draw in a breath, impede the sudden panic of drowning, but the man takes the opportunity presented and suddenly Cullen finds himself pressed back into the corner with the weight of the man’s chest against his torso. His hips ache from the jarring impact, but it’s hard to concentrate on that when there’s a leg hooked behind his ankle, drawing him impossibly closer. Pulling back only moves him tighter to the wall, and every inch he gives the man takes, till there’s not a bit of his body that feels separate from the one pressed against it.

_Disgusting_ is the only word he can summon for the sensation of the man’s tongue roving against his gritted teeth. He knows that if he opens his mouth again, he won’t be able to stop himself from biting down, the mission be damned, so he breaths through his nose and endures.

He can deal with the kiss. It’s everything else that’s overwhelming. The fingers teasing his hair, the friction of fabric against his chest, the heat of contact and the coolness of the night air. The man angles his head and the edge of the mask brushes his temple and he shivers violently, sparks racing through his spine down the backs of his legs and replaced with a fire that crawls back through his veins, until he’s sure all the blood in his body has risen to colour his neck and cheeks. He feels elated and sickened at once, and tendrils of blue lightning flash and twist behind his eyelids. The first hit of lyrium is always the sweetest, a sensation of falling before the numbness takes hold and he forgets…

The mouth disappears, and his relief is brief – _it’s done, the mission is secure_ – before he realizes that he hasn’t been released. When lips close over the lobe of his ear he jerks, hands scrambling for purchase against broad shoulders but the man smooths his arms back down.

_Disgusting_ is the word he wants to use, _should_ use, but the chorus of sparks is in his head now, cascading from the point of wet contact and rippling through his shoulders, and he can’t think.

He’s quite sure he’s never felt anything quite like this before, and the newness is exhilarating, and terrifying. It’s too much to take, and when the man’s hands move to his hips he barely reacts. Just one more signal in an ocean of noise. His skin is aflame. Thumbs press into the divots of his joints and he lets out a shocked breath – this too is new. They press small arcs into the flesh, back and forth, back and forth.

He’s hard. He knows it, and the man must also know it, and Cullen prays, _prays_ the man won’t wander further down, because he cannot predict what he’ll do. He might shove him over the edge of the balcony. He will not contemplate the other possibility.

The lips on his ear disappear, and the hands, and after a moment he can breathe again. He opens his eyes to find the man grinning once more, eyes dark behind his mask, mouth red and cheeks pink. Not a strand of hair is out of place. There are no wrinkles in his jacket. The brooch glistens, untouched, and in its absence he realizes that it cut into the space above his heart, leaving a forest of imprints still etched into the plush fabric. He knows he must look a mess, and in the space where discomfort was, mortification begins to settle, so heavy he feels he might choke.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” the man gloats, and the mortification twists into an anger so profound that his fist is already half-raised before he knows why the man is stepping back, out of reach.

He could strangle the man. He might do it – snap his neck like a fennec for roasting and leave him bleeding on the balcony. If he’s lucky, nobody would discover the body till after the party is over. He’s seen men executed for far less.

But then he looks into the man’s eyes, and there’s a wildness there that stays his hand. He wants Cullen to do it, to take a swing, to cause a scene. He’s got the expression of a man with nothing to lose, and suddenly Cullen suspects that he’s been duped. That this man is nobody, that he holds no influence in court, and that there were a hundred ways he could have sidestepped this situation that didn’t involve him baring his throat for a pervert with a death wish.

He lowers his fist and spits on the ground.

“The Lady D’Antigue. She means to meet a Carta contact tonight, offering ancient maps of passages through the mountains near Skyhold. Seek her out before she does.”

The man walks towards the door, but reaches out to brush Cullen’s shoulder as he passes. He smacks the hand away. “See? For such a small favour, you’ve secured your fortress. A small price, no?”

The torchlight from the corridor floods the balcony in hues of red and gold. “Be sure to dance with at least one young lady tonight. It would be a shame not to share that beauty around.”

And with that, the door is shut, and Cullen sinks back into darkness. He does not open it again until the wind has slipped through the seams of his jacket and replaced every trace of heat with a bone-deep chill.

He finds the corridor empty. For all he knows, it’s been empty the whole time.

He must return to his post. Find Leliana, deliver the lead. Make sure he’s ready when the Inquisitor calls.

This all has to be worth something.


	2. Chapter 2

The Empress is alive and well by the end of the night, and he does not lose a single man or woman to achieve it. All his soldiers perform admirably and the Inquisitor reminds him, as they saddle their mounts and prepare to depart, that he’s done the same. He cares little for the praise. He only wants to be back in Skyhold, resting his sore feet and free from any hint of courtly intrigue.

He doesn’t get that luxury. The forward scouts clear their way of enemies, but new rifts block their path at every turn. It takes nearly a week to reach the bridge that takes them to Emprise du Lion, and days past that to traverse the mountains to Skyhold. There’s little time to think on anything but the aching in his body and the next obstacle to fight.

Templars – as loathe as many are to admit it – lead sedentary, unexciting lives for the most part, and during his time in the Circles he was no exception. He wonders how the Inquisitor manages this travelling as an occupation. He thinks he might go mad if he wakes once more to a hail of spindly arrows, one more failed ambush that accomplishes nothing but interrupting what little sleep he manages to begin with.

Leliana keeps him busy with debriefings on the first day of riding, prying for any detail he might have observed from her dappled grey mare. He carefully skirts the details of how he managed to obtain his one morsel of intelligence, and part of him feels guilty for that. If the man knew one useful detail, he might be worth something more to the Inquisition. But Leliana seems satisfied with his explanation, however paltry, and with the news that her spies apprehended the deal and obtained the maps, he feels he can put the incident out of his mind. He’s unlikely to return to Orlais again before this war is over. There’s no point in considering it further.

By the time they cross the gangway into the fortress’s courtyard, the whole company is roadsick and exhausted. He sends his soldiers to the barracks with the order for wine to sweeten their bread tonight – they’ve earned it. He hears the Iron Bull leading a number of them in a raucous song about a barmaid from Antiva as they pack off. Seems the Qunari made friends on their journey. He’s not sure how he feels about that, but as long as it doesn’t cause disciplinary issues, he won’t discourage the interaction.

Everyone else bundles off to their various hideouts: to sleep, tend to wounds, or put matters into order that have lacked attention during their absence. He falls into the latter category, and wakes the next morning to find he’s drooled all over the shipping manifests he was supposed to be approving.

It’s easy to lose himself in his work again, and he welcomes the exhaustion of the long road behind. Sleep comes more easily than it has in a long time, with shakes and nightmares held at bay by a deeper weariness that takes days of slumber to scratch.

The solace cannot last forever, and once the weariness passes, the dreams return.

At first, it’s the typical stock – a tower, demons, Meredith’s burning red eyes. Unpleasant, but nothing unusual. He wakes and splashes water to clear the cold sweat from his skin, then turns his sheets out and returns to bed. It’s a routine he’s accustomed to, and he can even (occasionally) manage to sleep after completing it.

The second dream is different. It begins in the tower again, his arms bound by mystical energy, his back pressed to the rough stone of the curved wall, cold even through his breastplate. A shadowy figure watches from the staircase, face hidden, all but the flash of bright teeth.

This is the part where he is afraid most nights, where he begs for his freedom until his voice is hoarse, but tonight he’s silent. His chest thrums with the same energy as the bonds, but it’s not fear that holds him in place.

The figure begins to descend, and his stomach swoops.

When he looks above, the roof of the tower is gone, replaced with a sky alit with constellations. _Beautiful._ The wall behind his back melts away and when his eyes return to earth, the stone staircase is gone as well. He’s left standing on a balcony as wide as the tower walls, overlooking nothing.

Beneath the figure’s mask two gems glitter green in the starlight. Onyx swirls twist up like snakes as the light shifts.

Time is shuttered. He doesn’t see the figure move until there’s a hand on his shoulder. His armour is gone. He knows not he wears in its place, but the touch passes through the fabric as if it were nothing but smoke.

The second hand presses flat on his stomach, and he leans into the touch, feeling the pressure push through his abdomen and into his back, and when he leans forward the bonds disappear. With his free hands he lifts the figure’s mask away. He sees the man from the party beneath, and though his eyes are dead glass his smile is genuine, inviting. Cullen pulls the silk cord holding his hair loose, and grasping the dark strands in his fingers, kisses him.

They’re close now, so close, and fingers on his hips delve deeper, press onwards, downwards, and he wants them to. He wants-

_Thump_.

Cullen startles awake with a gasp. His hand scrambles for the knife beneath his pillow, but the cause of the noise soon becomes apparent. A small branch lies by his bedside, having fallen through the hole above.

The first gleam of dawn is just breaking, and he stares at the open sky through the thicket of leaves and branches that piece his ceiling.

His heart is still thrumming, breath still too quick, faint spikes of arousal fading but painfully evident. He doesn’t dare turn over.

It wasn’t a nightmare. He wishes desperately that it were, instead of whatever… _this_ was.

Sometimes the dreams fade quickly, becoming nothing more than a lingering sense of unease, but as he lays in bed and watches the orange light creep along the floorboards, the images only solidify. His waking mind fills in the gaps the dream could not, tracing the path of hands and bodies, and though the longer he thinks on it the more ill he feels, the renewed flush of arousal is impossible to ignore.

The thought of doing anything with that arousal is abhorrent, and he elects instead to pour the basin of water over his head, sure that splashing a handful will not be sufficient to clear his mind. The idea is a good one, and the douse of frigid water cures his ailment almost immediately, but as he watches the water drip down his legs and through the cracks in the floorboards he can’t help but wonder what important document he might have just ruined in his haste.

He’d asked Cassandra to remove him, if he ever lost his mind. Perhaps she waited too long.

\---

In nearly every way, Skyhold is a vast improvement over Haven. Its walls provide a surety that the lightly defended town could not, and that visible protection is vital to their recruitment efforts. It’s also a luxury to sleep on a real mattress in a room (even one with a hole in the roof) instead of a cot beneath a thin tarp. They have steady supply routes, even access to luxury goods like soap and linen. All in all, there’s not much to complain about. The only thing Cullen misses is the space.

The frozen land surrounding Haven wasn’t defensible, but it was also vast and unobstructed. He’d never had to worry about running drills that sent his soldiers barreling a half mile back and forth. Here, he’s lucky to clear forty paces without putting passersby in the path of swinging practice swords.

They trade off as a compromise, with rotation groups training in shifts while those not on duty complete chores and repairs. It’s the best they can do, but it means longer hours for him and his fellow officers.

Most days, he leaves it to the captains to do routine drills, but he’s happy to use observing as an excuse to escape his office. With nothing to distract from the dull paperwork save a chance summoning to the war table, it’s too easy to sink into his own thoughts. Fresh air is a welcome companion on days when those thoughts become too dark.

He watches a new recruit – a Templar apprentice who ran from her lyrium-addled commander, none too skilled with a blade but nimble on her feet – struggle to oust a spear from her equally inexperienced combatant. He’s debating whether stepping in to correct her form again will boost or demolish her confidence when the rail of the makeshift training yard creaks beneath his arms, wood bent under a sudden heavy weight. He stiffens, but back in full regalia he’s sure the twitch is hidden.

“So… you come here often?”

He can’t help but snort. It’s childish, perhaps, but the line sounds like something straight from Varric’s novels, and to hear it spoken with such seriousness strikes him suddenly funny. He glances over at his new companion. The Iron Bull has his eyes on the recruits, but the corners of his mouth are twitching as well.

“You know, she should plant her right foot when she strikes. Get more power that way.”

“I’ve told her,” he agrees, “but she keeps forgetting. She sees the blade coming and forgets to think.”

“She needs a real battle, not this fake shit. You put her in an actual fight and she’ll learn quick enough why it’s better to take a strike to the ass now rather than later.”

He looks at Bull, considering. He’s taking this seriously, he realizes. Very seriously. “I don’t send my recruits out until they can hit the broadside of a dummy more than once in a row.”

“They’ll never get good if you baby them.”

Cullen shakes his head, his pride flaring even though he knows that in this case, Bull is probably right. “I’d rather a bad recruit than a dead one.”

 “They’re the same thing,” he says darkly, but a moment later, he’s shouting with a grin. “Oi, Langley! Pick it up!”

The girl’s head whips up, braids flying as she searches for the voice. When she finds Bull, her despondent face gains some trace of life, and she whoops and pumps her sword in the air. Cullen stares in astonishment as she charges her unsuspecting opponent, bypassing the spear entirely and planting her shoulder firmly between his ribs. The boy goes flying; he’s sputtering curses when he picks himself out of the mud.

“That… that wasn’t the drill,” he says faintly, but Bull just laughs.

“Nope. But it sure as shit worked, didn’t it?”

She finishes the set with flying colours. Her form is still terrible, but she’s at least she’s putting her whole self into it. He makes sure to call a word of praise to her as she’s replaced by another soldier, and her face colours but she stands tall and thanks him, even though he’s sure she’d rather turn and run. She’ll do alright.

“You’ve done good,” Bull says, and Cullen regards him curiously. The next bouts begin, and soon their conversation is masked by the sound of practice swords hitting metal. “Your guys respect you. That’s the best thing you can say about a leader.”

“Thanks,” he says, baffled but warmed by the compliment.

They haven’t spoken much before, and he’ll confess he’s always been a little leery of keeping a Qunari (especially a Tal-Vashoth) in their ranks, but he can’t deny that the Chargers are a well-oiled machine. What’s more, his soldiers seem to admire Bull as much as their own captains.  That trust is something hard-won in his experience.

“Well, thanks for letting me drop by. Maybe I’ll send Krem tomorrow – he could use a chance to blow off steam. If I leave him in that tavern much longer, he’s gonna start climbing the bar stools.”

“You don’t think this’ll be a little below his level?” He’s seen Krem fight; he’ll wipe the floor with most of his trainees.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll find a way to keep things _interesting_.” The way he says the word makes Cullen nervous on behalf of his soldiers, and he makes a mental note to warn his captains in case he misses tomorrow’s practice. “Be seeing you, Commander.”

He freezes at the heavy pressure of Bull’s hand on his shoulder, warmth blooming even through the flange. A moment too late, he shrugs the hand off and ducks to the side. When he looks back, Bull is staring at him.

“Something hurting you, boss?” he asks, eyes narrowed, and Cullen’s mouth goes dry. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hit a sore spot.”

“No, you didn’t,” he croaks, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. “Just… startled me, I suppose.”

“Hmm.” One hand reflexively goes to his sword hilt. An obvious tell, one Bull himself has called him on during games of Wicked Grace. Why can’t he keep his damn hands still?

“I should get back to my duties,” he says woodenly, and knows he sounds evasive, and can’t help himself. The moment’s ruined already as it is.

“Sure thing.” Bull lets him pass, but calls out to his retreating back. “If you ever want to get together, talk shop, let me know. I wouldn’t mind picking your brain.”

“Will do,” he calls back, not bothering to turn around.

He’s ready to put a new hole in his office’s wall by the time he makes it back. Maker preserve him, if he can’t even handle a friendly touch he may as well write up his resignation on the spot.

He’s breathing so heavily that he almost doesn’t hear the messenger cough from the corner. Thankfully, he notes her presence before doing anything so foolish as shoving all the books from his desk in a fit of frustration. She looks rightfully terrified of her commander’s mood, and takes her leave as soon as the scroll is in his hands.

A summons. They need him at the war table.

He takes a deep breath and composes himself.

It’s just one more symptom. If he can handle the headaches, the nausea, the shaking and the fever, he can handle this.

\---

The meeting is pure torment. Now that he’s thinking on it, he can’t stop thinking on it. He’s noticed the Inquisitor’s flirtations before – who couldn’t? – but never before has he observed so many casual touches. She brushes Leliana’s hand as she moves a piece to one side of the map, straightens Josephine’s blouse in a moment of levity, she even leans her body fully against Leliana in a show of support after the news is brought that a well-liked spy has been discovered, drowned in the sand of the Hissing Wastes.

Has he simply been ignorant of it before? Surely he hasn’t been so blind to not see the toying before now.

When she moves to his side to inspect a report, he waits for it. A gentle nudge, a playful hair ruffle, _anything_. By the end of the meeting, his shoulders ache from being held so tight in anticipation of a touch that never comes.

He’s grateful. He’s also more frustrated than before.

When he dreams that night, he dreams of the Inquisitor’s rough hands smoothing his hair, her tongue catching the space beneath his ear as she climbs atop of him, murmuring of a fight he cannot win. The dawn’s light falls on her back in the shape of leaves and vines, and when he wakes the same light illuminates his shaking hands.

This cannot go on.


	3. Chapter 3

He has a simple rule for his captains – don’t let anyone prevent you from getting the job done. If you have a problem, your first priority is to solve it. The opinions and feelings of anyone standing in the way of the optimal solution are secondary to making progress, and should be treated as such.

The same rule applies if the feelings standing in the way of progress are your own.

Cullen tries to remember this as he paces the floor of his office, counting the minutes in his head towards when the messenger could have reasonably made the trek across the fortress to deliver his message. Trying not to think that he’s made a terrible, impulsive mistake.

His first thought was Cassandra. She already holds his secrets, more of them than he’d like, and he has no doubt she’d try to help if she could. But he’s equally convinced that for advice on… sexual matters, she should be the furthest from his mind. In this area, she’s likely to be more bashful than him, and then where will they be? Two awkward ex-Templars fumbling about blindly for solutions to a problem neither comprehends.

Who else, then? He could not ask Leliana or Josephine – they work too intimately together, and he cannot risk their opinion of him faltering, if they are to work out the meaning behind his words. He does not trust himself to speak in code they can’t unravel. No, everything there _must_ remain as it is.

The only other person who knows of the lyrium is the Inquisitor herself. She had not balked during that conversation, but in this matter…

There is a difference between what a commanding officer must know, and what they _should_ know. He had no choice but to tell her of his sickness before, as it directly impacted his ability to perform his duties. This problem hasn’t yet done the same, though he fears it might if gone unchecked.

He expects his captains to solve problems on their own, and only take the most serious to him – that’s why they’re captains. How could he ask the Inquisitor to expect any less of him?

_So, here they are. If you ever want to get together, talk shop…_ Cullen is quite sure this isn’t the type of conversation the Iron Bull was imagining in that offer. Still, he’s a mercenary – if decency can’t persuade Bull to hold his silence, money will. It’s good to have multiple redundancies in place.

Unlike Cassandra, Cullen has no doubt that Bull will have the knowledge required to assess the situation. If anything, based on his reputation, he may be overqualified on the subject. All he really needs is an answer to a simple question: is this an illusion wrought of withdrawal, or is it a perversion, and he is only learning his true nature now there’s fuel to feed it?

He can stomach neither option – one spells a deterioration of his mind, the other that it was twisted all along – but he will not live in ignorance. When next he falls to his knees under the light of Andraste’s altar, he’ll beg for aid or forgiveness, but at least he’ll know which he needs.

Were he less accustomed to the Inquisitor’s laissez-faire approach to meeting, he might have been startled at the door’s sudden opening. As it stands, he’s learned to stop jumping every time the hinges creak without a preceding knock.

Bull’s girth takes up near the whole doorway, blocking out the last light of the setting sun. He ducks his head to clear the frame and even then, the tip of one horn scrapes the edge of the moulding as he enters. It’s a wonder he can circumvent the human-sized passages at all. Thank the Maker this fortress was build with grandeur and not frugality in its bones – the vaulted ceilings do them all a favour.

“You wanted to see me?”

He’s sweating, Cullen notices. A thin sheen of moisture shimmers on his bare shoulders, and his voice, while steady, shows the roughness of fatigue.

“I’m sorry if I called at an inopportune time,” Cullen says, shifting uncomfortably. He’d hoped to catch Bull at a time of night where most men were relaxing from the day’s labour. Evidentially, he’s misjudged the other’s schedule.

Bull chortles, and swipes a hand across his mouth, clearing a few droplets from the fringe of his stubble. “Nah. Though I think I gave your runner-boy quite a fright. Guess he’s never seen a Qunari knocking heads before.”

“Trouble?” asks Cullen, narrowing his eyes. Bull flashes his teeth.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he says, but sobers a little at Cullen’s pointed look. “A couple merchants decided to throw their food at one of the minstrels, wrecked her instrument. I informed them that they weren’t welcome at the party anymore.”

“How?”

“Oh, they’ll be feeling more than the ale in the morning. But I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It wasn’t, but I find myself more concerned now than I was before.”

“Hey, you’ve got your arena,” Bull says, gesturing vaguely at the shabby decoration of Cullen’s office, “and I’ve got mine. You protect all of Thedas, and I’ll take care of the pretty bar maids.”

Cullen shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“So where is she?”

Cullen blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“The boss.” Bull glances around, as though he expects her to burst from a hole in the ceiling and land squarely on her feet between them, ready to start plotting.  “Don’t think I ever showed up to one of these meetings without her dropping in as soon as we’d begun. Figure I better put on my best polite face before she arrives.”

He shakes his head, caught off guard. Perhaps he’d been unclear in the message to deliver. “Ah, no,” he says, and clears his throat. “She’s not- it’s just us. Tonight.” Maker’s breath, was there no way he could have worded that that didn’t make him sound like an idiot?

“Oh, really? Fine by me. What did you need? No, wait, before you say anything – I’ll take the opportunity to remind you that the Inquisition hired the Chargers as muscle, not builders. So if this is about that foreman who keeps grabbing my guys and shoving hammers at them, you can kindly go tell him to fu-”

“It’s not that.” Frankly, he hasn’t heard a word about it, which means the man was probably scared straight.

“Well. Good.”

The air hangs empty between them, and Cullen becomes acutely aware that it’s his turn to speak. His mouth is parched. Water. He goes behind his desk and dips a cup into the urn on the shelf. After a moment, Bull follows.

The longer he waits, the worse this will be.

“So?” Bull asks again. The water tastes cool on his tongue. It washes away every rehearsed line he’d trained it for. Now that it comes to it, there’s no way he can begin this conversation.

It was a terrible, impulsive mistake he’s made after all.

“Would you walk the battlements with me?” he says finally. “Leliana… has uncovered some documents about hidden passageways near Skyhold.” His voice grows stronger as he works his tongue around the half-formed idea. “I’ve a rough idea of their location, but you know the surrounding area better than I do. I’m hoping together we can get closer to guessing their true location.”

It’s a lie. A stuttering, ungainly lie, but decent enough to save face. Truth be told, the documents in question are sitting on his desk, unopened, because he hasn’t had a free minute in the days since they returned to peruse them. Still, he can make educated guesses about the matter and who knows? Maybe he’ll even get some valuable insight out of Bull that he can corroborate later, when he has a chance to take a proper look.

“Passages near Skyhold, eh?” Bull looks thoughtful but not, thankfully, suspicious. “Sounds bad for business. I’m in.”

“Ah, good. Good.” He stills his hand before it can rub at the back of his neck. “After you.”

They nearly run head-first – or in Bull’s case, chest-first – into the retiring guard at the entrance to the first skywalk. He’ll be replaced momentarily by – there. Cullen can’t help but feel a little pride at the efficiency as he sees the relief guard climbing the steps from the courtyard below, their simple dance beautiful in its precision as one replaces the other.

In Kirkwall, he’d spent too many sleepless hours trying to devise patrols that gave the mages in his charge some illusion of privacy, while also providing adequate defence against the looters and slavers. There was always someone desperate for the coin an apostate could fetch. It’s so much simpler here – petty crime and the occasional squabble don’t require near the same attention to detail. Still. There’s something reassuring in seeing the system come together.

It’s also useful in situations like these. This is not the first time he’s climbed a ladder to find the one un-patrolled walkway at this time of night. It won’t stay that way forever, but by his reckoning, they have maybe a half hour before the next scheduled guard’s walk. This is not a flaw in his design. Leliana has her alcoves, and Josephine her gilded chambers. Every person in their situation must keep a place or two in their back pocket where one can have a private conversation.

So far, the only other person who’s needed to take advantage of that space is the Inquisitor. It’s jarring to see Bull in her place. With his bare chest and hideous plaid pantaloons, he doesn’t carry quite the same regal air. She’s rough and tumble, despite her nobility, but Bull is made for the battlefield, it seems.

Cullen leans on the parapet, gazing out into the dusk for some discernable feature. There’s both a truth and a feint in his action – he’d like Bull to continue believing he’s searching for a marked location, while he figures out which cliff looks mostly likely to hide an undead army bent on their destruction.

All of them, as he discovers, and he ends up gesturing vaguely towards the highest peak, sure at least then they’ll be looking at the same thing.

Bull joins Cullen at the parapet, following the motion of his arms to the imposing visage of the mountain. Its white cap is dotted with black spots that seem to dart before Cullen’s eyes. Egrets, perhaps? He’d prefer that option to snowy wyverns. Andraste save them if a dragon decides to set its territory this close to Skyhold. They’ll all be burnt to a crisp in their sleep.

“Haven’t been that far myself,” Bull says, “but your forward scouts were out that way a month or so back. Pestered everyone else in the Herald half to death with their complaining, too – I guess they froze their asses off trying to get past some rockslide. You could probably ask Harding about it.” Bull glances at him. “Would have thought you’d have known that already.”

Cullen is ready to retort that, of course, he knows where his own soldiers go, but it seems every day there’s some new scouting mission, and all the meetings blur together after a time. He can’t say for certain whether he gave the order for the scouts to investigate that particular peak. If he’d read their report afterwards, he doesn’t remember. Ten others like it form a soup of words in his mind, leaving an impression sealed in soft wax, muddled and unformed.

“It’s possible,” he concedes, “I may have forgotten.”

He lets his face drop into his palms, pressing against his eye sockets until stars burst behind his eyelids. He’s unspeakably tired, all of a sudden. A long day mixed with too many sleepless nights and he hasn’t got it in him to keep this up for the sake of politeness. He’ll apologize for wasting Bull’s time and send him off – at least then he can retire to his office, try and pass the remaining waking hours in some mockery of productivity.

The cold breeze makes him all too aware when Bull shifts closer and he breathes out into his hands, eyes still closed, willing his heart to silence and his legs to remain still. With their grey skin, he’d have thought Qunari were cold-blooded, but now he knows they radiate heat like a blacksmith’s kiln. Or at least, it seems that way to him. Would a normal person feel his companion from a foot away? The more he focuses on it, the more his heart pounds, until the ache is as deep as any wound.

“So, do you wanna tell me what you really wanted to talk about?” Bull’s matter-of-factness startles Cullen out of what was rapidly veering towards what his mother might generously describe as an _episode_. He takes his hands and puts them behind his neck, still stubbornly staring out at the mountains. He doesn’t try to protest. Bull isn’t an idiot and he’s proven himself to be a more terrible liar this evening than usual. “I’m also fine to, you know, just hang out. If that’s what you’re into tonight. I know you spend a lot of time with people who wouldn’t tell you this, but never every conversation has to be life and death, you know.”

“I wish that were true,” he says, and Bull barks out a laugh.

“Have you always this fucking serious?” and Cullen finds himself smiling in self-deprecation. Even he can admit the dourness in his words is excessive.

“My sister would tell you so.”

“Hah! From what I hear of sisters, that’s no surprise.”

“You don’t have any, I take it?” He’s aware that their shifting into a more casual conversation, farther away from the real reason they’re out here, but this feels… easier. Like he can breathe a little.

“Not in the way you mean,” Bull answers. “At least – I don’t think so, no.”

“You don’t know?”

Bull looks pensive a moment, chewing on his reply. “I don’t remember.” There’s more behind the words left unsaid, something that Cullen doesn’t dare dig at. He expects Bull to change the subject, move on before the awkwardness sets in, but instead Bull rests his arms on the parapet, Cullen’s mirror, and continues.

“How much did the Inquisitor tell you about my past?”

_Nothing_ , is his knee-jerk reply, but there’s little chance Bull would believe him. “What she needed to.”

“Mm, diplomatic,” he teases, but the jest is half-hearted. “There are a lot of things I don’t remember. Some of that’s probably for the best, mind you. But some of it, well, let’s say I’d rather have known. The Ben-Hassrath made that decision for me, what I should and shouldn’t keep. Guess I’m just glad to be making my own memories now.”

Cullen knows of what he speaks – the Qun’s reprogramming efforts are well kept secrets, but nothing escapes the ears of Leliana’s network. Still, he hadn’t guessed Bull would have been subject to the same.

The wind is gentle and low, and they rest in companionable silence, till before he knows the movement of his lips, Cullen finds himself speaking.

“I would ask you something.”

“Ask away.”

“Something of a… confidential nature. If there’s a fee involved in your discretion, I’ll pay it.” Bull straightens a little, never losing the small smile but notably more engaged.

“Let’s call this one a freebie, eh? Save your coin to fix that roof of yours. Besides,” he says, leaving into Cullen’s space with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, “former Ben-Hassrath here. Secrets? Kind of my thing.”

He swallows thickly. There’s nothing for it then.

“Have you known men who… Andraste, how to say this?”

“I’ve known many men,” Bull says, eyes still twinkling, and that certainly doesn’t help Cullen’s rising embarrassment, but it gives him a moment to consider his next words.

“By that, I mean, men who… take pleasure-”

“I like where this is going-”

“Ah… what I mean to say… men who derive pleasure from… _unwilling_ encounters.”

The light in Bull’s eyes instantly shifts to something cold and unreadable, and Cullen looks back at his hands, unwilling to watch the revulsion grow.

“I should have stipulated,” Bull says, voice razer-thin, “that my silence only extends so far. You had best choose your next words carefully.”

He plays back his own phrasing, and it takes him a moment but as he realizes what he’s just implied, waves of cold mortification roiling through his stomach. He thought that Cullen was looking for-

“No! Not… I understand what it sounded like, but you have to believe that _that_ is not what I meant. I would not, would _never_ , look to… _take_ another against their will.”

Cullen clenches his hands to keep them away from his sword hilt, lest he lose them in the swing of a broadsword, and sure enough, when he chances a glance, Bull remains stony and unconvinced.

_Shit_.

He aches to turn back now, to call the confession an offhand hypothetical and retreat to his room, but he cannot have a well-regarded member of their company believe, or even _suspect_ , that he’s of that sort. A molester at the highest level of the Inquisition? Not even Leliana could quell the impact of that sort of accusation.

“I was speaking… of myself,” he says finally, the words torn like shrapnel from his chest. “Perhaps that’s not much better – it still spells a sickness of the mind – but I would not have you think that I am that monstrous.”

The tension still hangs in the air, but Bull is a lit fuse of simmering danger now, and more… Shocked is too strong a word. Wary, perhaps.

“I’ve known guys who like a lot of fucked up stuff. You wouldn’t be the first to fantasize about that sort of situation.” A laugh burbles up in Cullen’s throat and he swallows it down. _A fantasy_. If only. The proof is in his skin and the way it crawls, even know, even when Bull is clearly shifting backwards, putting space between them. It’s a sickness written into his body itself. “I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about me around here, and this much is true: I’m willing to try a lot of things, with a lot of people, but I won’t do a scene like that.”

Though he anticipated any manner of negative reactions, the dismissal still hits him like a blow to the gut.

“To be absolutely, crystal clear, I did not ask you here to tonight to proposition you.” He’s as startled by the anger in his own voice as Bull. “I only wanted to know if there were others who were as repugnant as me, and now I have my answer. Thank you for your time.”

He makes towards the door, but Bull blocks his path, massive frame blocking the exit from sight. Cullen’s breath quickens.

“Wait a second. Don’t throw me all these confusing confessions and then turn around and misinterpret what I say.  Just because I don’t get my rocks off by playing the rapist doesn’t mean someone wants that is a bad person. But-” The tables have turned and now it’s Bull who considers his words carefully before speaking.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem the _type_.” Cullen shakes his head. If the _type_ is someone who would go beg another man to molest him, he’s grateful he doesn’t. Bull pauses again. The door seems a mile away. “I want to ask you a few questions. You don’t have to answer, and you can leave at any time. Does that sound fair?”

Cullen nods. What else can he do? He’s asked for it, and now he’s getting it.

He squares his jaw and faces Bull head-on. If he’s going to do this, he’ll do it as a solider.

“Have you always imagined something like this, or is it recent?”

Cullen’s mouth goes dry. “Recent.”

“And before, you’d enjoyed sex of the more, hmm, conventional sort?”

This question is harder. Admitting that his experience is limited to the realm of hypotheticals is more than his bruised ego can bear, but the alternative is to lie and forfeit whatever small benefit honesty might provide. “I… believe so.”

Bull quirks an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t press further.

“Did something happen, recently?”

The question is both vague and pointed, and it leaves Cullen at an utter loss for words. His first thought is that Bull must have known, somehow found out, but no. Surely he wouldn’t be couching himself in uncertain terms if he _knew_. His second is that he absolutely, cannot bear to speak the truth here.

“Hmm,” says Bull. Cullen’s been silent too long, his lack of response an answer in itself, and he wants to kick himself for the dullness of age and tiredness that’s muzzled his tongue.

“A lot of people think it’s strange that killing dragons gets me all hot and bothered.” Cullen nearly chokes. The lightness in Bull’s tone is new and familiar at the same time, but an abrupt shift from the seriousness of his questions. “Even my own clan chalked that up to my particular proclivity, and I’ve seen Qunari get it up the sight of a passing ship.” He pauses, shifting down a register. “Sometimes you just can’t help what your body reacts to.”

Cullen lets the words hang in the air between them. He’s torn between denying Bull’s assumption and approving it by protesting that this isn’t the same thing. A man becoming excited in the heat of battle is nothing like the vileness of what he’s discovered in himself.

“That may be,” he concedes, settling firmly into the middle ground of ignoring the implication entirely. “But I’m afraid my sense of what’s normal for my body to need departed long ago.”

“Oh, I doubt you’re much different than the rest of us,” Bull says. “Food, exercise, rest, companionship, solitude. Touch, though some men don’t like to admit it. Tell me something, Cullen. Was your sister affectionate when you were younger?”

“We were close,” he responds warily, unsure of the new direction of the conversation but happy for somewhat less fraught territory. “I’d say so, yes.”

“And your mother, would she hold you when you were upset, or kiss a bruised knee?”

“I’m not sure I understand, but yes, that and more.”

“And when’s the last time someone held you with that sort of gentleness?” At Cullen’s silence, Bull supplies his own answer. “That long, huh?”

“I’ve just told you that I like to be forced, why ask about tender caresses?” he snaps. He’ll take a hard tone over the softening in Bull’s voice. He’s not some animal that needs to be gentled to keep from spooking.

“Just trying to understand the whole picture,” Bull says. “But maybe that’s enough questions for one day.”

“I’d say so,” Cullen mutters.

“I’d like to try something else now, if you’d let me.”

The only possibilities Cullen’s brain can conjure for that sort of request are dark, and he shudders despite himself. Bull just got done saying this wasn’t the sort of thing he was into. But here they are, on a ledge overlooking the precipice, stars glimmering in the periphery. It might as well be a balcony, except there are two doors to freedom here, and Bull said- but how many people has he known to lie? Not everyone is as they seem.

“Breathe, Cullen.”

Was he not?

“I’m going to place my hand on your neck. Nothing else, and if you want me to stop doing that, you tell me, and I’ll stop.”

Cullen snorts incredulously. Bull’s treating something as simple as a hand on his neck as something to be frightened of, something he’d need to beg to cease. What kind of man would be frightened by that?

“Cullen, may I?”

What kind of man is he?

“Yes,” he breathes. “Of course.” He clears his throat and straightens, hands clasped behind his back in a cup form, eyes fixed on the spot where Bull’s sword-sheath cuts a broad line across his chest. “Proceed.”

There is no wall at his back to hold him in place when Bull steps forward, nothing to brace himself against. No excuse. He plants his feet and holds firm while Bull advances with footfalls too careful for someone his size.

The fingers that graze his chest are chilled from the altitude and exposure, and Cullen knows that his hands are cold too. He sees the trajectory of the hand coming, but it doesn’t stop him from startling back from the touch. Bull’s eyes voice a silent question, and Cullen regains his stance, frozen fingers still clasped in an ever-tightening grip. He returns the gaze, hoping his answer is clear, because he’s lost the capacity to open his mouth.

He watches in slow motion as Bull raises his hand again, follows its path to rest in the cavity between chestplate and exposed neck, where the tendrils of the shoulder flange graze the undershirt below. Pressure radiates out from his palm, its radius once and half more than that of a normal man, fingers spreading shivers down beneath the lines of his armor. A burning flush follows the chill, tracing up the strained lines of his throat to his cheeks and down his sides. The brush of the wind is replaced by a dull roar of blood and apprehension and the urge to strike out is enough to have Cullen gritting his teeth until his jaw aches with the compression.

He closes his eyes, and this is a mistake, because when his eyes are closed then the hand ceases to be a hand. The appendage melts into his skin, crisscrossing lines of shivers and heat until he can’t tell when his own body begins. Bull’s presence buzzes in the forefront of Cullen’s mind and looms higher and larger the longer his eyes remain closed, until the shadowy figure overtakes the night sky, spreading like a blanket of tar around him until he’s enveloped in the darkness.

He could step backwards and break the spell. He should. The fever sings beneath his skin and he cannot let it spread further. And yet, he leans into the touch, against his own will. Bull lets his fingers drift until they tease the edge of his undershirt, slipping beneath the edge of his scarf, and he shakes with the effort of remaining still.

“Breathe,” Bull repeats, and he hears the command but doesn’t comply, because every breath pushes the hand further into his chest, and now Bull will feel the breath rattle in his neck, and he’ll feel the vibration up into his jaw, and there are too many quakes running down his shoulders, too many sensations. He holds his breath until the blood pounding in his ears becomes a rushing river and the sparks behind his eyelids chorus into a shimmering wave.

The hand is gone, but it takes him a moment to register it, and when Bull speaks again the voice is far away. He opens his eyes, and is shocked to find that, far from a looming figure as tall as a mountain and ready to devour, Bull has retreated a number of paces back. His expression is cautious, but not accusatory.

He’d almost welcome the interruption of one of his guards now, if only to cast his mind from the sharp sensation of shame now piercing his skull in the absence of contact.

“Well,” he croaks when his voice returns, “did you learn anything _interesting_?” The self-reproach warbles in his words. The lyrium or something else, it no longer matters much. He’ll never endure the mortification, regardless of the outcome. “I must be the most broken case you’ve seen in-”

“I wouldn’t say you’re that special,” Bull interrupts. “In fact, I’d say what you’ve got is pretty common.”

Cullen snorts. “I doubt it.”

“When I touched you, were you afraid?”

Cullen cuts back his initial defensive response and tries his best to consider honestly. “No. No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Did you think I would hurt you?”

_No._ The answer comes more readily than he expects. He still pauses a moment before answering. “I don’t know what I expected. But… no.”

“And yet you still reacted to me. To my touch. Why do you think that is, Cullen? If your desire lay in violence, why didn’t I need to frighten you?” He speaks with the tone of a teacher but the frankness of a soldier, and Cullen finds he doesn’t have an answer. _The lyrium_ , he wants to say, but he finds when it comes to it, that too feels like an excuse.

“Did you know, a Qunari child, taken from the Tamassarans and raised in isolation, will waste himself away in a matter of months, even if he’s got all the food and water in the world?”

“I don’t see your point.”

“There are some types of hunger that can’t be fed by food or drink. I’ve watched soldiers drop off just as quickly from skin hunger as from famine.”

“Skin hunger?”

“When your body craves something, it’s for a reason, and it’s stupid to ignore it. If your body needs touch, think about why. Think about what you’re missing. And maybe, once in a blue moon, consider actually going out and getting it.”

Bull laughs at Cullen’s expression, but it’s a kind laugh. “I’m not saying be me and fuck to scratch an itch every time you get antsy. That’s not something you just jump into. Hell, the Qunari have institutional help for that sort of thing, Tamassarans who will give you whatever you need whenever you need it. It made things easier for everyone. Kind of miss that, actually.” Bull sighs, glancing off into the distance. “I’m just saying that a hug couldn’t hurt every now and again. That way things don’t build to a head, like I think they have now.”

“I feel like there’s a joke in there,” Cullen says weakly, “but I’m afraid to guess at it.”

Bull chortles amiably. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

Cullen swallows. Bull’s laughter, his ease, his complete lack of reproach – it all points to him speaking the truth, at least as Bull sees it. That this thing beneath his skin is something natural. Expected, even.

To burn at contact, to crave it all the more. Tied up in memories of roving hands and hot breath, the first he’s tasted, the worst he hopes to ever feel again. Is it possible it’s really that simple?

He always wondered why mages, despite the strict rules against fraternization, would risk punishment to be found, fully clothed and entangled in the corner of old cots, breath mingling in the dim candlelight. He’d assumed it was the prelude to some sexual act. Perhaps… he could have been wrong.

“You’ve given me much to think on,” Cullen says finally. “So… thank you. For… _this._ ” He motions aimlessly, unsure of how to convey what he’s learned when he doesn’t even understand it himself, not fully. There’s a spark of some truth there, but even as he chases it, the memory of cold stone at his back rears and threatens to chase the shred of warmth from his heart. He swallows again, and chokes down the shame that still claws in his chest.

Bull regards him. “Anytime. And I do mean that. _Anytime._ ” The significance placed on the last word is evident, but opaque: one more thing to think on.

He opens his mouth to thank him again, but the groan of the door at his back sends him whirling like a child caught with his hand in the pastry tin, though he knows that outwardly there’s nothing suspicious in their staging. When he glances back, Bull is leaning nonchalantly on a parapet, and fixes Cullen with an easy smile.

“Evening, Commander.” The young man is a recruit from the Wilds, a gatherer turned soldier. He doesn’t blink at Bull’s presence, simply continues his rotation at Cullen’s nod. The chain around Cullen’s heart loosens.

As soon as the door swings closed behind the guard, Bull boosts himself up and straightens to full height. “Well, I guess I better be getting back. The Chargers need me there to show them how to have a good time. Unless there was another mountain pass you wanted me to evaluate?”

“Hmm?” Cullen says, bewildered, until he realizes his blunder. He stutters out a few words, but Bull raises a hand to shush him.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” he teases. “Night, commander.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Cullen to face the cold wind alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to add the last bit as an epilogue, as it felt like the story needed some closure :) I'll post that tomorrow or the day after!


	4. Chapter 4

The documents are fakes.

It takes mere moments of perusal to spot the inconsistencies, telltale markings of a forgery. The maps have the jagged quality of those traced through torchlight, and hastily so. Good enough to fool the casual observer, but Cullen has spent days of his life pouring over maps of Skyhold, and this one bears the same errors as other reproductions he’s seen, made by Carta and the like to sell to unsuspecting merchants.

A lesser man might have tossed them into the fire out of frustration, but Cullen completes his assessment and folds the maps neatly before resealing the envelope with wax and placing it in his desk. It can be returned to Leliana’s team later for further analysis.

Cullen leans back in his chain and breathes.

A month has passed since the party. They’re circling the wagons around Corypheus, but progress is slow. Life is as peaceful as it can be in wartime.

The dreams come less often now. And the rest of it… it comes and goes.

The rain pitter-patters against the ceiling of his office; workers are coming to fix the hole next week, if he doesn’t redirect their efforts before then. There’s always a more urgent repair.

A knock. The door opens, and in steps the Inquisitor, with blood on her face and an apologetic look. She’s got an urgent need, one that’s weighing heavily on her, and he fixes to start preparations for the next journey. Ten soldiers, ready and willing to die by her command, outfitted in standards of red and gold. He won’t be going along, and she expresses her regret, and he expresses the same, and this is all familiar ground, but her shoulders brace tighter than they should, eyes more wild and unsure than he’s accustomed to.

She turns to leave, and with hesitant fingers he reaches out and touches her shoulder. It’s a simple thing, but she tenses and he has half a moment of terror that he’s overstepped his bounds before she relaxes into the touch, allowing the weight of his hand to settle on the plume of her coat. She regards him with something like surprise, and something like gratitude.

Warmth crawls from the space their bodies connect into his arm, and when he takes his hand back the hollow in his chest feels a little less empty. She leaves without another word, and he sits down to his desk again, and reaches for a pen.

_Bull,_

_I wanted to let you know that our discussion in the month past has borne fruit. In thanks for your service, please accept this token._

_I know you said no payment was required, but I feel duty bound to provide one all the same._

He hesitates a moment before finishing and sealing the letter with the same stamp. To the seal, he affixes a chord with a velvet pouch, and inside he places a single gold coin and a carved gamepiece.

_Should you wish to discuss the matter further, meet me tonight at dusk in the courtyard, where we can put the gift to its proper use. If not, the same courier will convey that message. Spend the coin as you will._

_Respectfully,_

_Cullen_

The smell of rainwater mixed with newly green things lingers in the air. Winter’s almost at its end, the newness of summer teasing the promise of something fresh and clean.

It feels like something’s beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! My first Dragon Age fic. I'm hoping to come back in the future - there are so many things in the world I'd love to explore :) Thanks for reading!


End file.
